


to/from; columbus

by formeldehyde



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Poetry, Tour de Columbus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formeldehyde/pseuds/formeldehyde
Summary: my thought processes to and from my tour de columbus show and the eight hour drive there and back.





	1. to

I'm driving toward Columbus now. Toward promise of time to indulge my own pain to the one that alleviates it in a purifying burning of my brain. Melting the faulty parts within my skull. I can feel it, I can live a song. Every line is being cut into my skin as a bloody scripture of why I stayed alive in the first place. I do stay alive for them; in one way or another.   
The light polluted glowing clouds are shining on the yellow guiding lines of highway roads, empty vast lanes. My blood is freezing, snow filling the empty space in my flesh. Shaking fingers hanging out the window, caressed by wind and headlights.   
I can see him. He's somewhere off the road, under an overpass or in the bizarre empty forests near the interstate. He's standing, waiting. He's waiting for me, the humming of the universe intensifying with the vibrations of the road rattling my rib cage, breaking the shards of ice burnt onto my heart.   
Driving into unknown, the black abyss of beyond headlight territory a forever enigma. Unknown but comforting, l'appel du vide. Driving towards the void desperately clawing for it. Only to be broken by fog hazed fluorescence and gas station signs alighting the night.   
Dying tonight would be beyond a blessing; unfamiliar and indistinguishable roads far from home. Body rotting alongside roadkill and into cigarette butts tossed away.   
And if he would tell me one thing, it would be of the morning.   
He's a chilling early fall morning. Breath visible, sky overcast with sunset tones. The trees turning ever so slightly, just the ends becoming honey crisp. He hides where I am; distant, but he lives in his head and he's in that morning autumn scape. He's escaped the world of night, and he's an angelic guide toward morning.   
In between I and he, there's a purgatory of homes and ghosts inhabiting the empty sidewalks. Crosswalks full of empty soldiers, a queuing to cliff.   
Watching the entering Ohio sign pass above me, I felt a wash of nostalgia for something not of my life flood my veins. Feeling closer than I ever have to something near religion. It's a pilgrimage to a false Mecca; Columbus. Each combined mass of 100 miles now, of infected god complex.   
Its 98 now and the heavy exhaustion of my only other near religion- alcohol, sets in. nights of drunkenness catching up with my tar soaked lungs and heavy eyelids. driving toward a cleansing baptism


	2. from

I'm driving from Columbus, faith entertained for that three hours. the sun is of morning, that night holding every drop of my purified blood as holy water. skin to skin with creator is something no religion on this earth can claim, but I can. As I form my own sacrament from his skin, listening to hymn after pious hymn- detailing the self motivated destruction of my own soul and heart encrypted by malfunctioning brain salad. spilling out my mouth and eyes, bones twitching. His words drilled into my flesh, carved with a butcher knife against the curve of my rib cage surrounding a heart swelling, full of love. my heart now is spilling out, melting like candy as the road signs point me east. to be in a over flooded church of people separated at neck, guillotines are packed in the back of cars. heads lost in the chemical imbalance of  Columbus. And it could be my own brain creating god complex in man, delusional heart clawing for something even I can't believe in. come the morning, with sun so mocking of bonds forged in night storms. rain falling down from clouds bleeding, hands to the moon and to him as voices sing of holding onto life like a vice despite the empty void of heart not being indulged by him. trying to be faithful, to not take blade to skin and join the earth. to follow the scripture set in five parts, but the taking of our pain onto him is said with ease. but the spilling affection for him overpowers ability to wish his death against i. I hold onto him. 409 miles, not out of Ohio and I already can feel him being watered down in my veins. it's beyond terrifying but the comfort of the stain left on my skin is enough. I hope it's enough.


	3. home

i'm home now, but not quite. not my home, the home of familiar friends and forests that disappear into smoke filled dreams in my brain. my home i left, a city i had never been to became the destination i would seek my whole life. the red string of fate seemed to have knotted around my heart and was pulling me back back to ohio.   
day by day lights flash in front of my eyes and i can feel the heart strings pull tighter and tighter. the memory is driving my opposite direction, driving west as the lines of the road act as the string- connecting me back to him, to them.   
to the soft spoken and the savior. to kind and quiet heart, and desperate aching love.


End file.
